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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28167459">something wrong in the village</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening'>wednesdayevening</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Coming Out, Family Dynamics, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Transphobia, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Trans Character, Trans TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), lesbianinnit, no beta we die like men, wilbur soot is a good brother</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:08:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,718</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28167459</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilbur grins. "Do I need an excuse to visit my little brother?” </p><p>Tommy flat out recoils at his words. He jerks back, eye twitching, inhaling sharply. When Tommy realises what he’s done, he looks utterly horrified with himself. And, fuck. It all makes sense now. </p><p>some mtf tommy angst.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1669</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>something wrong in the village</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i said i would never post this but then i grew a pair. im not mtf but i am ftm so i hope this isnt bad. if anyone is uncomfortable with this fic yell at me and i'll take it down. enjoy :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s a Friday when Wilbur realises something’s up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy never goes a couple of days </span>
  <em>
    <span>tops </span>
  </em>
  <span>without going online. He’s always streaming or editing or lurking on a Discord server. He, like the rest of their fellow streamers, lives online. Needless to say, it’s a bit alarming when he disappears for a couple of days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d streamed on Tuesday - Wilbur knew because he was there. He’d left the stream in stitches from laughing so hard - and then tweeted late that night. That had been it. Wednesday he was absent. Nobody heard anything from him on Thursday either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur checks to make sure Tubbo’s not still streaming and joins his empty voice chat. “Tubbo!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wil!” Tubbo greets. “Hey, Big Man. How you doing? I was just gonna log off.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I won’t take up much of your time,” Wilbur says. “I just - have you talked to Tommy recently? He’s been away for a couple of days.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The call goes silent for a second. “I haven’t,” Tubbo says eventually, voice quiet. There’s some shuffling on his end of the call, and then - “I talked to him Tuesday night, I think? He seemed off in his stream so I texted him asking if he wanted to call - ‘cos we usually go - and he said he was feeling sick.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur frowns. Tommy sounded far from sick on his Tuesday stream. He can hear the worry in Toby’s voice, so he changes the route of the conversation. “Thanks mate. It’s probably just England weather. Takes down any immune system.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo makes a noncommittal noise. Wilbur knows he isn’t buying it. He sighs. “I’ll call him, yeah? Don’t worry. I’ll text you later.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Wil.” His voice is small. “Bye.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get some sleep, Toby,” Wilbur says, and then hangs up. He scrolls through his friends on Discord and starts a voice call with Tommy. It rings and rings and rings. Nobody picks up. He picks up his phone next and dials Tommy’s phone number. It goes straight to voicemail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey. I can’t answer you right now, clearly, so leave a message. But only if you’re important. Like the Queen or GeorgeNotFound. Anyway. Bye!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Toms,” Wilbur says. “Um. Call me back? You’ve been away for a bit. I’m just checking up. Love you,” He adds hesitantly, and then hangs up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes Tommy is okay. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Tommy’s not okay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His legs are cramping from lying sedentary on his bed for so long. His sheets are stiff with dried tears, hair mattered and askew from how many times he’s raked his fingers through it. It’s cold both outside and inside the house - Tommy thinks it might be snowing, but he can’t be sure; he hasn’t opened his eyes nor his curtains in so long - but he’s lying on top of his bed covers in nothing but a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The cold is kind of nice. It numbs him. Stops him from thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been doing that far too much. Thinking. His brain is going a million miles an hour lately, and he can’t seem to shut it up. </span>
</p><p><span>He’s so so </span><em><span>so </span></em><span>aware. It’s like every atom, every electron, proton, neutron - every fucking quark in his body is alight. He’s so aware of his sharp jawline, his bony shoulders, his lanky, skinny frame, his jutting elbows and knobbly knees - no curve in sight. He’s aware of his hair, the fuzzy, awkward chicken feather-like locks that don’t even touch his ears. He’s aware of the emptiness in front of his ribcage, the vast void in his heart, the dull itching temptation on his forearms. He feels the skin graze on his shirt, and it feels like his nerves are cut open. He hears his mother call his name, call him her son,</span> <span>and it feels like someone has applied molten lava to his skin. </span></p><p>
  <span>He knows why he’s feeling like this. The answer is in the forefront of his mind, burning through his prefrontal cortex, leaving an indentation in his skull. The truth is right there, but he cannot bring himself to accept it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tommy? Thomas, come and set the table,” His mother calls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t answer.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“Did he call back?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur doesn’t want to lie to Tubbo. “No.”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pregnant pause. “Wil, could you do me a favour?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go and see him? In real life I mean. I would, but college - and my parents would never let me.” Tubbo’s voice is pleading. Wilbur’s already made up his mind. He scrambles for his keys. “I’m worried, Wilbur. He’s my best friend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur nods, even though Tubbo can’t see him. “I’m leaving now, Tubbo.” And then, because he’s the adult, and he needs to be strong: “Everything’s going to be okay.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Tommy’s house is one of many identical terrace houses. He’s been there only once to drop his pseudo-brother home from school when his parents couldn’t, but he’s been on enough video calls with Tommy to know what it looks like. He knows where the spare key is too, but he ignores that and knocks first. Nobody answers. He bends down and scrapes around in the bottom of the terracotta flower pot by the door for the key before sliding it into the lock and letting himself in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This part of the house he doesn’t recognise very well; Tommy doesn’t often venture downstairs in his video calls with Wilbur. The house is immaculate and bland and has not a hair out of place. He calls out a hello once. When there’s no response, he bounds up the stairs to where he knows Tommy’s room is. The door is closed. He slides it open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tommy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur doesn’t miss the way the teen flinches. He scrambles up into a sitting position, scrubbing a tired hand across his face in an effort to clean up. There’s a smile on his face in seconds, a laugh bubbling up out of his chest instantly. It’s so fake Wilbur’s heart aches. He hates watching Tommy’s guard go up, and hates even more that it’s for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bud,” Wilbur whispers, “Jesus. You look like shit, mate. What’s - what’s wrong?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gee, thanks,” Tommy snaps, but the exhaustion in his tone drowns out the malice. Wilbur lets his eyes drift over his younger brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks horrible. His hair is greasy and a mess, cheeks hollow and skin sallow. His lavender eye bags eat at his cheekbones. Wilbur notes the clothes he’s wearing are the clothes he had on for his Tuesday stream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing’s wrong,” Tommy says. “Why are you here, Wilbur?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why am I here?” Wilbur echoes, aghast. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, what happened? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He crosses the room in two strides and crumples beside Tommy on his bed. “You went radio silent for a couple’a days, bud. That’s pretty unlike you. We got worried.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We?” Tommy whispers, and his voice is so small Wilbur thinks his heart shatters then and there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tubbo and I,” Wil answers. “Hey. No feeling guilty. You’re human, emotions come with the package. Don’t feel bad for whatever this is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy falls silent again. It’s so very unlike him. This is the Tommy that talks over everyone, screams and laughs and wheezes at every minor inconvenience, every horrible joke. Loud is Tommy’s thing, his personality. This sudden change is...alarming. Wilbur reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder. He thanks whatever deity watching over them that Tommy does not move away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Plus,” He grins, aiming to lighten the mood. “I wanted to see you. Do I need an excuse to visit my little brother?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy flat out </span>
  <em>
    <span>recoils </span>
  </em>
  <span>at his words. He jerks back, eye twitching, inhaling sharply. When Tommy realises what he’s done, he looks utterly horrified with himself. And, fuck. It all makes sense now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur’s not stupid. He knows Tommy isn’t flinching at the mention of being related to Wilbur. He’s got a wide range of friends, and through his experiences with people and the knowledge he’s obtained over the years, he can gather a hypothesis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks over the times where the teen’s voice had cracked when he called himself a Big Man, emotional cracks Wilbur and the rest of the internet had believed were simply pubescent. He thinks about the time George likened Tommy’s excitement to “that of a teenage girl”, and how Tommy had frozen. He thinks of the time off-camera where Tommy was brainstorming sub goals and Tubbo suggested a skirt stream. He remembers Tommy’s stuttered flat-out denial of the idea. He’d passed it off - passed </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the instances off as typical teenager things. Fuck.  Perhaps Wilbur </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>stupid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buddy,” He says slowly, praying his tone is comforting yet not condescending, “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I need you to know that I love you.” He tilts the teen’s chin up with his index finger. “You’re my sibling, and I love you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause. Tommy’s eyes widen comically, mouth parting open in shock. The kid bursts into tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I - I,” He stutters, throat clogged with tears, “I don’t want - I didn’t ask for - I - I - </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Wil, I wanna be </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal</span>
  </em>
  <span> - “</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If his heart isn’t broken into a thousand tiny pieces yet, it is now. “Sweetheart,” He says. He wants to take the kid’s pain away. “You are normal. This is okay. You’re alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy’s hands bury into his shirt. Wilbur feels his shoulder dampen. “I’m a - a </span>
  <em>
    <span>streamer, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wilbur. My - my life is on the Internet. Everyone’s gonna hate me, they’re all gonna unfollow me - my friends, oh, my </span>
  <em>
    <span>parents </span>
  </em>
  <span>- “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur shushes him. He blinks away his own tears and carts a hand through the teen’s soft hair. “Shhh. Nobody’s gonna hate you. None of us will hate you, I can promise you that. Tubbo and Technoblade and Phil and Nikki? We all love you. We’ll all support you, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy chokes on a sob. “My parents - “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur shakes his head and holds on tighter. “We’ll cross that bridge when it comes to it. And - and if anything goes bad - which it won’t, FatherInnit is a lovely chap - you can permanently bully me. It’ll be great. We’ll get so many views together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, Wilbur,” Tommy cries. The teen pulls back from their hug. Wilbur grins at the kid’s slight smile. “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur exhales. “I love you too.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks sm for reading! leave kudos and comments!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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